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"Ian! Ian! Stop! Ian, stop!" |
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No man's voice could reach that pitch. No one there would call him by his name. How long had it taken him to hear her? Ian opened the hand that held the shaft of the morningstar, allowed the loop of the weapon to slide off his wrist. He lifted his eyes from what lay at his feet. There should have been a wild rush of relief when he saw Alinor, safe and well. He did feel gladness, but it was strangely muted, as if the emotion was blanketed under a heavy weight or was a thing perceived at an immense distance. |
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Alinor was spattered and streaked with blood, but the sight did not shock him. Although it was true that he was, at that moment, incapable of feeling shock, Ian knew the blood was not hers. Obviously, it had come from the dead things in the clearing and had sprayed from the weapon he had been wielding. Slowly and carefully, Alinor raised her hands and took his face between them. Ian stared at her with recognition but without feeling. There was a surprising absence of human voices. Horses stamped and nickered nervously, and there was a soft sound of sobbing. Ian looked more closely at Alinor, but the sound did not come from her. |
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"Ian?" she questioned gently. |
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It was very peculiar. Ian felt cold and tired and as if everyone was a stranger to him. Most peculiar. He turned his head a little to one side and then to the other. His men-at-arms were backed away as widely as the clearing would permit. On the ground were the |
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